Hero
by Katt9966
Summary: A response to the challenge to explain why the characters became police officers --- Dutch. This fic mentions spousal abuse.


Title: - Hero.

Author: - Katt.

E-mail: - kattanonhotmail.com

Rating: - R.

Feedback: - Like it or loathe it let me know.

Archive: - Archived at the Shield Fanfiction Archive.

Warnings: - This fic mentions spousal abuse, if this subject upsets you please do not read any further.

Disclaimer: -I don't own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Authors Notes: - This is a response to the challenge at the Shield Fanfiction Archive to explain why the characters became police officers.

Hero.

Sean Taylor, Christ Dutch wished his mind would stop thinking about him, and the things he'd said in that interrogation room. However, time and time again he found himself remembering his words, and then looking within himself, analysing his own personality, criticizing the flaws he found there. _"You think too much, always picking everything apart. Why can't you just accept things for what they are?" _Lucy had said that to him, when his suspicions had been aroused and he'd questioned her about her behaviour. At the time he'd thought she was right, and had felt silly, and had apologised. Of course a week later he'd found out he'd been right all along, when he'd discovered she was pregnant and he wasn't the father. However, even now that was a wound still too raw and painful to dwell on so once again his thoughts returned to Taylor.

With a sigh Dutch turned over trying to get comfortable. Once again he closed his eyes trying to get to sleep. Once again he failed. Then Taylor's patronizing voice was back in his head, _"It's why you became a cop. You thought with a gun and a badge they'd respect you…" _Dutch had denied that later on, telling Taylor that the reason he'd become a cop was that he liked to solve puzzles. In one sense he supposed that was true. It could be intellectually stimulating piecing together the crime, the motive. Tracking down the perpetrators, and then fitting all the pieces together, but that wasn't the real reason he'd become a police officer. The real reason was buried in his childhood. Buried deeply in the events of one night when he was about six years old.

Not really wanting to think back to the dark days of his childhood, Dutch found the memory coming unbidden to his mind anyway. It began playing out behind his closed eyes, and he felt like an unwilling spectator, trapped in the memories of that night.

He'd been hiding behind a chair in the living room. He'd been in his pyjamas, and so must have gotten out of bed and come downstairs to see what was happening. Dutch had never figured out why he'd done that that night. Usually when he'd heard the noises downstairs, the raised voices, the banging of furniture being knocked over, he'd pull his blankets over his head, squeeze his eyes tightly shut, and put his fingers in his ears. He'd try to blot it out, and hope that by the time the heat and stale air under the blankets had forced him to poke his head out again, that it would all be quiet once more. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

So there he'd been trapped behind the chair, desperately wanting to close his eyes and look away, but unable to, totally transfixed by the scene playing out in front of him. He could remember his terror, raw and visceral. His chest had felt tight, as if he could barely breathe, his entire body rigid, unable to move, unable to look away, frozen in fear. His father's voice cold and unforgiving, Dutch couldn't remember the words, just that icy tone as he spoke. His mother had been crying, lying back on the couch while his father loomed over her massive and fierce. He'd punctuated his words with blows to her body with his fist.

Dutch could remember that he'd wanted to stop his father, to run out and help his mom, but he'd been too afraid. He'd felt like a coward as he'd just pressed his lips together to prevent any sounds from escaping, and alerting his father to his presence.

Then there'd been another sound, banging on the front door. His father had straightened up and turned the look on his face twisted with rage, transforming him, in the eyes of the child, into a monster. Dutch could remember huddling back, afraid his father would see him. However, his father had left the room instead, and Dutch had watched as his mom had slowly, and painfully, pulled herself up from her prone position on the couch.

Again he'd wanted to go to her; to hold her, comfort her, but the thought of leaving his safe haven while his father was still there was too much. So he'd stayed still and quiet, hoping not to be noticed. Hoping he'd be able to sneak out and return to the safety of his bed. He wanted to be up there in the dark again. He wanted to be curled up under his blankets, feeling the weight of them pressing down on him, feeling surrounded and hidden. Just a little chink in his camouflage to let cold, fresh air in. However, he hadn't been able to move he'd been too afraid that he'd be seen.

Then suddenly the living room had been full of people, all talking at once. Dutch remembered looking out from behind his chair, and seeing two policemen standing in the room talking to his father. His father had been so mad, because the neighbours had called the police. It had seemed to Dutch, as he'd huddled behind his chair, that all the voices were merging together, becoming louder and more angry. His mom had begun to cry again, and this had made his father even angrier. Even at the age of six Dutch had known his father well enough to know that he would get even madder if you cried, if you showed weakness, while he punished you. Dutch could remember looking at his mom, now sitting on the couch in her nightdress, her arms wrapped around her middle, and big tears running down her face dropping down onto the white nightdress, and making the material wet. He could remember how he'd been willing his mom to stop. To stop crying, stop sniveling, stop being weak. She knew it would make "him" mad, and she knew, just as he did, that the number one unspoken rule in their house was that you must never make "him" angry.

Her tears elicited the predictable response from his father. He'd turned away from the policeman, and with his face a cold mask of rage he'd shouted at her to shut up, and with a raised fist he'd taken a step towards her. Dutch could remember how he'd tried to curl in on himself, not wanting to see that blow land, but still unable to tear his eyes away from the events unfolding in that room.

Then something had happened that had taken him completely by surprise. One of the cops had shouted, and moved around so that he was standing in front of his father, putting himself between him and his mom, protecting her. Words were exchanged between the cop and his father. Again Dutch couldn't recall what was said, merely the tones of the voices. His father's cold, menacing, angry. The cop's insistent, calm, precise, contemptuous. Dutch had waited for his father's anger to explode. The cop had defied him, and no one did that. Everyone obeyed his father; it was the way life was, the natural order of things. However, the explosion never came. Instead his father had reined in his anger, and lowered his fist, glaring at the cop, but doing nothing. Then he'd been gone. He'd left the room with the other policeman, and Dutch had held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. What would this tall stranger with his blue uniform and authoritative presence do? He'd thought that if this man had been able to stand up against his father then he must be the bravest person in the world, and he'd once more felt a twinge of shame deep within himself that he'd stayed hidden, and had been too afraid to help his mom. He could remember wondering if they were going to arrest his father. Take him away and lock him up forever, then it could just be him and his mom from then on. That thought had frightened him as much as it had thrilled him.

Then suddenly the policeman had been looking at him. Unlike his parents, who'd been so absorbed in their own drama, he'd noticed the little boy crouched down behind the chair.

The policeman had hunkered down, and held out his hand to him smiling. Dutch remembered he hadn't hesitated, but had reached out and taken the cop's hand. That had been unusual for him, he'd always been shy of strangers as a child, but something about that cop had made him trust him instantly.

The policeman had said, _"Come on buddy let's get you back to bed huh." _The cop had turned to his mom, but she'd just stared back with empty, blank eyes. She got like that sometimes, as if his father had nearly sucked all the life out of her, and she barely had enough to keep herself alive, and definitely not enough to spare for anyone else. Dutch remembered how his mom often looked like that when he'd try to comfort her, to hug her. She would quietly, but firmly push him away. In the end he'd given up trying, and rather than face her rejection of him he'd reject her by walking away, and leaving her to it.

The cop had realised that his mom was going to be no help so he'd turned back to Dutch and said, _"How about you show me where your room is, and I'll tuck you in ok?" _Dutch had led him upstairs. He had heard low, murmuring voices coming from the kitchen, the door to which was firmly closed. He guessed it was the other policeman and his father, and he wondered once again if they were going to take his father away.

Soon they'd been upstairs and he'd climbed into bed, and true to his word the policeman had slowly, and carefully, tucked his blankets in all around him. Dutch could still picture the policeman's face as he'd looked down at him; he'd looked a little tired and sad, as he'd asked him, _"Are you going to take my dad away?" _He could still hear the little note of hope in his voice as he'd asked the question, and he could also hear the tone of sadness in the cop's voice as he'd reached down and gently ruffled his hair, telling him, _"I'm sorry buddy, I wish I could. You be a good boy now and go to sleep. Don't worry I'll talk to your dad, and ask him not to get so mad, ok?" _Then he'd left he room, closing the door behind him.

There had been the murmur of voices downstairs for a while after that, and the monotonous sound had eventually lulled him off to sleep. The cop must have had his talk with his father because he had been insular and quiet for about a month after that night. Of course it hadn't lasted, and he'd awoken one night to the familiar noises downstairs again. This time though he'd pulled the blankets up, and tried to blot it out, he'd learnt his lesson.

It had been a relief actually. The whole month before had been spent walking on eggshells, just waiting for that one event that would set his father off. This had felt like a storm breaking after a long, humid, oppressive dry spell. It was noisy and violent, but also a relief of all the tension in the atmosphere.

However, Dutch pulled his mind away from that, and turned his attention back to that anonymous cop. The only person he'd ever seen who'd successfully stood up to his father. He'd stepped in between him and his rage, and his mom, to protect her. He'd made his father back down.

Dutch smiled to himself slightly, that cop had become his childhood hero, and through him, and his actions that night, all cops had taken on a special significance in Dutch's eyes as he'd grown up. They were the frontline between good and evil, between the guilty and the innocent. So that was the true reason he'd become a cop. It really had nothing to do with respect or puzzles. He'd just wanted to be like his childhood hero.

Turning over once more, and pulling the bedclothes up over his head, Dutch finally dropped off to sleep.


End file.
